


DNR

by CheckeredCloth



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-11 11:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5624950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheckeredCloth/pseuds/CheckeredCloth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eventual Cullen/Dorian, past Cullen/Samson; Hospital AU:</p><p>It's as Cullen's striding down the hall to X-Ray - scrubs wrinkled, unshaven, looking down the barrel of a shift so long past its expiration date that even Cole wouldn't pluck it from the staff fridge - that he sees him:</p><p>Freshly pressed white coat a pleasing and stark contrast to his dark and perfectly groomed visage, the new radiographer is handsome even by the standards of doctors who haven't been awake for thirty-plus hours straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's as Cullen's striding down the hall to X-Ray--scrubs wrinkled, unshaven, looking down the barrel of a shift so long past its expiration date that even Cole wouldn't pluck it from the staff fridge--that he sees him:

Freshly pressed white coat a pleasing and stark contrast to his dark and perfectly groomed visage, the new radiographer is handsome even by the standards of doctors who haven't been awake for thirty-plus hours straight. As Cullen is momentarily struck dumb, momentum slowed (but not halted; Cullen is a shark at this point, any cessation of activity will result in immediate death), he flashes a smile that's all perfect white teeth and makes Cullen's stomach flip over. Or maybe he just needs to eat something.

Cullen nods a greeting, resisting the urge to look over his own shoulder and verify that he is, in fact, the recipient of said blinding smile, before hanging an immediate right to Radiology's Nurses' station. It's not that he's afraid of interacting with attractive new staff, but he simply doesn't have the energy to make a good impression with what might or might not be an exhaustion induced hallucination encouraged by his own libido.

"Is he real?" he can't help hissing at Harding, however, as he reaches the desk. She startles, but manages not to drop the patient orders she's just pulled from the printer.

"Who?" she asks, eyes flicking around the mostly empty department. Cullen jerks his head back in the direction of the new staff-member, who, thankfully, is no longer paying any attention to them, chatting away with the requisitions girl as he accepts an order of Sierra Mist and Propel.

"Him."

Harding's small, young face lights up when she's spies the man Cullen's indication. "Oh! Dorian? He's our new radiographer. Today's only his first day."

"I didn't know we were hiring."

"We aren't, at least not in this department, but we needed a replacement after Seggrit, er..."

"Lost his shit and quit?" Cullen finishes for her.

"Essentially," Harding sighs.

Cullen has heard the hospital scuttlebutt concerning Seggrit's sudden and unpleasant departure, the rumors ranging from the typical (storming out after a particularly backlogged shift) to the ridiculous (flipping a desk covered in patient scans and brandishing a defibrillator pad at Vivienne de Fer, Head of Medicine, before being hauled out by security).

While the latter is not completely unlikely (he has witnessed some pretty spectacular meltdowns over the course of his career), Cullen knows better than to believe anything Sera tells him.

"So," Harding says, pulling him to the present. There's a sly look on her face that usually proceeds gossip. "It looks like you've got competition for handsomest doctor, huh?"

"Radiographers aren't doctors," Cullen answers automatically, not out of any kind of spite but because his brain is kind of running on autopilot at this point. "And it's no competition. I look like shit right now; I know it, I own it."

"Ha! So you _do_ think he's handsome." Harding looks smug, like she's just verified a personal theory. If Sera were wearing that look, Cullen would be bolting for the nearest exit. "You should go talk to him."

"Why?" Cullen blinks at her. "I don't need an analysis."

She sighs, as if he's being deliberately obtuse. "I didn't mean talk to him about work. I meant to introduce yourself."

"Um, how about no?"

"Why not? You don't actually look like shit." She eyeballs him, taking in his two-day old stubble and the surgical mask still dangling around his neck. "Well, maybe for you. But you looking like shit still looks a hell of a lot better than most people."

"Thanks for the pep talk. Still no. I don't need any more opportunities to embarrass myself."

"Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to talk to him anyway." Cullen narrows his eyes at her in suspicion, and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "I gave him Mister Genitivi's scans for analysis, so if you want copies you're going to have to get the originals from Dorian."

There's a moment of awkward silence as realization dawns. "You're evil, you know that? Leliana has corrupted your innocence."

"You'll thank me one day, when he's having your adopted babies."

Cullen pushes away from the desk with a groan, wondering how he's managed to get caught up in a scheme worthy of Leliana, Haven's legal rep. Unfortunately, when he turns, he finds himself face to face with Dorian.

"Adopted babies?" the man asks, voice rich and smooth, like some food Cullen will probably be able to name when he's finally slept. "Did I hear you right? I'm guessing congratulations are in order."

"What? No," Cullen feels himself blush to the roots of his hair. He rubs a bleary hand over his face to disguise it. "No babies. Colon."

It's Dorian's turn to look taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"I came for the X-Rays of my patient's colon." If his face blushes any hotter, Cullen is fairly certain he'll irradiate Radiology. "Harding says you analyzed the scans for me?"

"Ah, yes," Dorian says, as if Cullen hasn't just uttered the single least sexy word of the English language in greeting. "The unfortunate man with the eggplant in his... nether regions. Forgive me, I thought you were inquiring after my own." He smiles rakishly, as if they aren't still discussing the lower digestive tract. "Rather forward, considering we have yet to properly introduce ourselves."

"Let's fix that," Cullen says, proffering his hand. "I'm Cullen."

"Dorian, though I'm sure my name tag doesn't leave that to the imagination. Yours, however, could probably do with replacing."

Cullen gives his name tag an unconscious tug. "Yeah, we ER doctors are rough on pretty much everything except the patients." It's the same key-card he got when he finished his fellowship and took on a full-time position two years ago: it's faded and scratched and barely scans him into the restricted areas without a curse or two, but he hasn't had the heart to replace it.

"I can believe it," Dorian says, looking him up and down, but his tone isn't judgmental, and if Cullen didn't know it was impossible he'd think he was getting checked out. "Let's go get those scans, shall we? I'm sure Mister Genitivi is incredibly anxious to rid his rectum of unwanted aubergines."

+++

Cullen's still kind of thinking about Dorian when he sees to the old monk with the eggplant ("I fell on it, truly"), and then later when he's sitting at the ER desk doing his paperwork and nibbling on a carrot stick he thinks he might have stolen from Cole ("Forgetting to eat will only create more forgetting... and stealing from others is unkind"). Cullen makes a mental note to snatch Cole a Dr Pepper and some chips from the lounge.

"Go home." Cullen looks up from writing a prescription of painkillers for a man with a fish hook in his eye to see Cassandra frowning down at him. He blinks up at her.

Her expression doesn't waver. "Go home, Cullen. Go before I drag you out of here myself."

Cullen meets her unimpressed stare in a silent, mini-battle of wills, and weighs his options. He knows Cassandra's threat isn't an idle one: she's a fellow ER MD and adrenaline junkie, accustomed to restraining even the brawniest heroin junkie in a moment of aggravation; but Cas and he have also been friends for many years, and she well knows why he dreads going off the clock some nights.

Just the thought of trying to sleep when he's this keyed up makes him snap the carrot he's holding between his teeth with a sharp crack.

"This is technically my shift," he says, after he chews and swallows. He's shooting for a rational argument. "I'm supposed to be here."

"You are here because you were on call and haven't left since your last shift."

"That's out of my hands."

"Not when we are treating fish hooks and eggplants." Her expression softens. "I know things are... hard, right now, but working yourself to death isn't the answer." She raises her hand when Cullen opens his mouth to argue. "You'll find no quarter with me on this. I've already spoken to Vivienne."

"You're bluffing. Vivienne isn't even here; she leads the quick clinic on Thursdays."

"It's Friday."

"Oh." Shit. "Shit," he says.

Cassandra rolls her eyes. "I'll pull your car around. And people think I'm stubborn..."

Cullen watches her walk away, feeling a familiar anxiety slide like an enormous eggplant to the pit of his stomach.

+++

Cullen staggers up the steps of his front porch, wondering if he may actually be tired enough that sleep will come without a fight, for once. While he feels around in his scrubs for his house key, he spots a familiar wet nose pressed up against the glass inlay, droopy brown eyes watching his every move. He can’t help but smile at the sight.

“Hey, buddy,” he says after he unlocks the door, crouching down in the foyer to scrub behind the dog’s ears. Max barks once in approval, butt wagging more so than the stump of a tail adorning it. “Did you have a good day with Don?”

Another bark of approval, and he chuckles.

There was a time when Cullen protested adding any pets to their home: he works more often than not, and it just isn’t fair to have an animal in a home where the occupants are usually absent.

_“Every home needs a dog, or it’s not a home.”_

_Cullen rolled his eyes. “My family never had pets growing up, and we managed just fine.”_

_“You are damn fine,” Raleigh said, waggling his eyebrows. “But I can see how a lack of canine companions in your life has scarred you. I’m doing this for you, baby.”_

_“Oh, really?”_

_“Shit, yeah.” He held up the wrinkled puppy, who looked more like a crumpled piece of felt linen with eyes than a living animal. “Look at this snarfy face and tell me you don’t want it. Poor Max and I will just have to cope with your rejection.”_

_It was a dirty play, but Cullen could no more reject either set of the sad eyes in front of him than he could have cut off his own arm. And that was that._

Cullen’s smile twists into something painful at the memory, so he quickly ushers Max into the kitchen to feed the pup dinner and begin the lengthy and arduous process of pretending Cullen’s big, empty house isn’t smothering him every second he’s in it.

There’s a huge pile of mail on the kitchen table, left by Don, his pet sitter, and he works through it to the comfortable slurping noises of Max eating in the corner: there are a few bills, a thousand-and-one credit card and malpractice insurance offers, and one personal letter with a California return address.

Cullen holds the last in shaky hands, turning it over and over again as if there will be some kind of written instruction for what to do next.

 _Cullen, just don’t,_ whispers a voice that sounds suspiciously like his sister Mia.

He staggers over to his stove, turning on the propane and watching the blue flames licking up at the oxygen above the range. He holds the envelope just out of reach, trying to will disobedient muscles into making a practical decision, just this once.

He stands there for several minutes on the verge of action before sighing and turning off the gas again. The counter is the only thing holding him up as he sags, letter unscorched and held tightly in a white-knuckled fist. Max whimpers behind him in concern, front paw batting at the pant leg of his jeans.

“I’m okay, Max,” he whispers, even though he isn’t. He’s far from okay, exiled to an island of empty houses and old ghosts by a fluke of genetics no one could have seen coming. So, he can’t help but feel a little defiant by not burning the letter. He doesn’t read it, of course, but he doesn’t burn it.

And if it ends up carefully placed in a kitchen drawer filled with envelopes of the same make and return address, no one has to know but Max.


	2. Chapter 2

Cullen's lying face-down on his mattress, just barely on the edge of real sleep and hoping he'll tip over into it, when he feels a tell-tale electronic buzz in the room.

His whole body jerks, left arm slapping at his night-stand for his buzzer. His neapolitan mastiff, Maxwell, groans at the disruptions to his sleeping arrangements and rumbles off the bed. Cullen hears him huff and puff in the direction of the kitchen, obviously seeking a more peaceful place to sleep than Cullen's legs.

His fingers finally curl around his buzzer in the darkness, and he squints at it in confusion when there's no alert on the screen. Then he remembers his phone in the pocket of his jeans, and he checks it instead.

He has several unread messages and a few missed calls, but the most recent is from his sister, Mia: _Where are you?_

Cullen blinks, still exhausted, and knows he has only the most obvious answer at his disposal and that it'll probably piss his sister off.

_Home?_

It takes only a second for her response.

_We were supposed to meet for lunch_

His first thought is that he would definitely not make lunch plans with his sister in the middle of the night, but then eyes the clock on his phone and realizes that it's 12:05 PM and not AM. Which means Cullen got home around 7 o'clock the morning.

Maybe Cassandra is right, and he pushes himself too hard.

_Shit. On my way. Where again?_

He's shoving legs into a clean pair of jeans (at least, he thinks they're clean), waiting for his sister's response, when he stumbles over one of Max's toys and hips his dresser, hard. It hurts, the feel of a new bruise blossoming in a tender area; but what makes him wince is the sound of glass shattering against the floor of his bedroom, a picture frame apparently dislodged by the collision.

When he bends to survey the damage, his heart starts pounding hard against his chest, a slight roaring in his ears: even with only the frame's backing visible, he well-knows which photo it is. If Mia were here, she would tell him this is the perfect opportunity to get rid of it, another real step in starting over.

As if on cue, her response buzzes into the room, battering against the buzzing in Cullen's brain that tells him to fall back on bad habits and old hurts.

Grimacing, he leans down and pulls the felt backing from the shattered frame, then gently grasps the corner of the photograph, shaking it free of glass shards. He doesn't look at the image it holds, but he does place its smooth, waxy surface against his mouth. Not kissing, but not really letting go, either.

+++

"About time," Mia says, grinning, when Cullen pushes through the crowd to her table. She stands to kiss his cheek, and as they sit Cullen takes a good look at the place: it's modern, and its convoluted espresso machines and brick walls are fashionable in the kind of careless way that's beyond Cullen's understanding. Mia looks at home, however, short blonde hair pulled back in an artfully messy ponytail and wearing expensive, dark jeans.

"Posh place," he says. She rolls her eyes. "What?"

"That's your way of saying you'd never pick this place."

"To be fair, I've never even heard of it. What does 'Halamshiral' even mean?"

"Does it have to mean anything?" She takes a sip of espresso from what looks like a child's teacup. "You doctors are always dissecting everything."

A waitress pops over to their table, so fresh-faced that Cullen wonders if she's old enough to drive, and Cullen orders the largest coffee he can ("No, really, the biggest cup you can find"). "I'm not doing any dissecting these days," he says to his older sister, leaning back. "It's mostly patching up bar fights and pulling things out of kids' noses."

She wrinkles her nose at him over her cup. "Well, at least MD looks good when I try to set you up on dates."

"Mia..."

"What?" she says, setting her cup down a little harder than necessary on the table. There's a set to her jaw and a pout to her mouth that tells Cullen not to push.

They both look to his pocket when it chimes into the silence.

She frowns when he pulls it out, and Cullen knows what she wants to ask before she asks it. "Is that...?"

 _"No_. He doesn't have my number anymore, I didn't lie to you about that." He sighs. "It's a text from Cassandra." She wants to know that he made it home and to bed, in concerned tones that some might misconstrue as ornery and somewhat threatening.

"Cullen, I..." Mia reaches across the table to place a hand on his arm. Her eyes are big and caramel-colored, like Cullen's, and melt away his mild irritation. "I don't want to fight about that. I just worry."

"I know," he says, patting her hand. "But you need to trust me on this."

"I trust you to take care of everyone but yourself." She shakes her head sadly. "The way he treated you, I can't help but resent that."

"It wasn't his fault," Cullen says, accepting a mug of Colombian dark roast from their returning waitress. He chugs a quarter of it down, the heat of it scalding his throat raw.

"Doesn't matter. I'm a big sister, and it feels the same."

"Can we talk about something, anything, else?" Cullen pleads hoarsely through his scorched throat.

"How about the fact that you're going to be an uncle?"

He nearly chokes on his second sip. "What? Really? That's incredible!" He shakes his head. "I didn't know Branson had it in him."

Mia gives him a swat across the table, reflexes like a praying mantis. "Me, you idiot. And there's no need to sound so shocked. Thom and I have been trying for a while."

"It's amazing, really," Cullen says, reaching across to take her hands in his. "I'm so happy."

"Not yet." She squeezes his hands, eyes shining. "But soon, I hope."

Cullen smiles weakly and lets the comment slide. He knows it's not worth the effort to contradict his sister even when she isn't pregnant and hormonal.

They spend the next hour chatting about everything and nothing: she doesn't know what to paint the baby room; Cullen needs to get a haircut; she's trying to learn how to cook ("It's not _that_ funny, Cullen"); Cullen is still seeing his psychiatrist twice a month ("I'm glad you're talking to someone, though that eye-patch is a little intimidating"); she doesn't know if Thom's ready to be a father ("Give him time. Thom's a good man"); etc. The enormous, gooey cinnamon roll Mia ordered that they've been steadily picking at for forty minutes is mostly gone when she cuts off mid traditional baby-name tangent, distracted by something over Cullen's left shoulder.

"What is it?" he asks, not sure if he should turn around and potentially get caught staring.

"Well, hello there, handsome," she murmurs, and Cullen can't resist twisting to cop a look at the restaurant's newcomer. It's... Dorian. In jeans and a navy wool coat, he looks handsome and somewhat more casual than a professional radiographer in action, but not by much. He's leaned against the counter, chatting cheerfully with the barista as if they're long-time friends; considering how little Cullen really knows about the man, maybe he actually owns a chain of hipster coffee shops and just does radiography as a hobby.

"What?" Mia asks, alarmed, when Cullen turns around with a groan. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Cullen rests his face against one hand so that his fingers are obscuring his features from view.

"You _know_ him, don't you?"

"I work with him. And I only talked to him long enough to embarrass myself." He winces at the memory. "So please, for the love of God, just pretend you never saw him."

She chews her lower lip, a considering glint to her expression, and Cullen dares to hope that she might, uncharacteristically, heed his desires. His heart sinks when she leaps to her feet, disappearing somewhere within his blind-spot; she's obviously intent on some drastic intervention in Cullen's love-life, and with one of the few people who might not yet know how incurably awkward he is (though that's incredibly unlikely). Cullen's so accustomed to her ill-conceived, disastrous interference in his personal life that his sister's pregnancy, and that little thing he took called the Hippocratic Oath, are the only things stopping him from full-body tackling her in front of three-dozen skinny-jeaned college students.

"Shit," he whispers, tangling his fingers in his hair. All he can do is sit quietly at the table and act as unaffected as possible while Mia likely has a good laugh with Dorian about how inept Cullen is, quite literally behind her brother's back...

"What the hell did you say?" he hisses angrily when a figure finally pops back into his periphery several moments later.

Except it isn't his sister who sits across from him, but Dorian.

"Just that this is the only place to get a truly fine spiced Chai, and yes, it is very hard to get a table at this time of day." Dorian says, smirking at him, decorative Styrofoam cup in hand.

Cullen stares at him, flummoxed. "I, uh... what?"

"My apologies," Dorian continues. "You were not privy to the conversation, so I'll start from the beginning: 'Hello, I believe I've crossed paths with your incredibly handsome visage before?' 'Why yes! I quite often frequent this store, the Chai is superb. Unfortunately, seating is often quite scarce.' 'Why, I have a table already, but an appointment has come up and I must abandon my seat. You are welcome to it, if you like.' 'How kind. I think I shall!'" Roughly mid-way through the other man's monologue, Cullen realizes he's being given a one-man re-enactment of the conversation that has just taken place between Dorian and his sister.

"...Ah."

"Ah, indeed," Dorian continues in a normal cadence, demonstration over. "It is always a pleasant surprise when someone can keep up."

Cullen shakes his head, clearing it.  "That's me, full of surprises."

"So I've noticed! Imagine _my_ surprise when, lo-and-behold, sitting at this table I've been generously offered is a man I'm already familiar with." Dorian's grin is blindingly white. "Coincidences upon coincidences!"

"Oh, it's a coincidence alright," Cullen mutters, face hot. He takes a sip of his coffee to mask it. "Sorry about that. Mia is a little... much."

"Oh, she's perfectly charming, your wife," Dorian assures him, eyeballing the tell-tale white line of skin circling Cullen's ring finger. Cullen reflexively curls his fingers where they rest on the table-top. "Or is it girlfriend? _Mistress?"_

"No! No, Mia's my sister. I'm not with anyone, at the moment." It's not _technically_ a lie, but Cullen still feels slimy saying it.

"Ah. That explains the uncanny resemblance. I just thought that you were one of those matching couples, like the people who own dogs with the same hair."

Cullen scoffs. "I have no interest in dating myself. The last thing I need is to spend more time with me, or even own a dog who _looks_ like me."

"Noted. It might surprise you, but I feel the same. Not that I need to spend less time with you, _per se,"_ Dorian hastens to elaborate. "But that I need less quality time with Dorian. I've been told I love myself too much."

"You're spending time with me whether you like it or not, considering the machinations of random strangers have given you little choice," Cullen points out.

"Ah, but I like a little coercion and manipulation in my personal life. It almost makes me homesick." Dorian cants his head, giving Cullen a speculative look. "You, however, don't seem the type for those kinds of games. I'll understand if you wish to find another table."

Cullen swallows, knowing he's being given an out. _Thanks, I should be going anyways_ , he wants to say. "I'm not, but I don't mind the result." _Dammit._

"I must warn you that I'm prone to blathering."

"I like listening to you talk." _Christ, where did_ that _come from?_

"There's no accounting for taste, I'm afraid," Dorian says, but a bit of color tinges his cheeks.  "There are many well-studied in my behavior who would disagree with you."

"No one said good taste was universal," Cullen says.  His pager dings into the moderate din of the restaurant, and he sags, though he can't say whether it's due to relief or disappointment.  "I'm sorry, duty calls," he says, pulling it out and reading the blinking script. There's a six-car pileup downtown.

Dorian just raises a hand. "By all means, go save the world. I do hope that you'll bring any pressing rectal issues to my attention at a later date."

"Not just the pressing ones." Cullen's beginning to suspect his mouth is actually being controlled by a nefarious outside force.

But Dorian's answering laughter bounces around in his skull the entire trip to the hospital, so at least there's that.


End file.
